Wartime winter

Words 295

Peggy was sick of the war. It was 1940 and her husband Alan had been away for over a year, unable to even see his son, Brian, who was now eight months old.

She heard her baby cry out in the next room and looked at the alarm clock. Five a.m. and still dark. Was he ever going to sleep through the night?

“He’s probably cold,” she murmured, turning on the light. As her feet touched the bare floor, she gave an intake of breath. “I wish I could afford to buy a rug.”

Going to the window she moved the curtains aside and peered out into the empty street. The gas lamps were still lit, but for her to see out onto their tiny garden first she had to scrape patterns of frost from the glass.

She went into her child’s bedroom; he was sitting up in his cot sucking on the corner of the blanket his face hidden from her. Hearing his mother entering the room he dropped the blanket, giving her a gummy smile.

Gathering him up in her arms she took him back into her bed. There was a little of her warmth remaining and she covered them both with the thick eiderdown that her grandmother had given them when she and Alan married.

Eventually though Brian insisted it was time to get up. Peggy held him tightly wrapped in his blanket and went down the stairs into the kitchen. She shivered and lit the gas stove to warm milk for Brian’s bottle.

“I’m so sick of winter.” She looked at her baby, “Just you wait, baby boy, it will be spring soon. The sun will shine, we’ll be warm and your daddy will be home.”